Locked Doors and Empty Decanters
by GirlWithTheInkBlackQuill
Summary: John wasn't the only one who watched Sherlock jump - the British government's heart broke as well.


His door was locked and the decanter was empty.

Without its contents to weigh it onto the stack of files, his glass slowly slid towards the edge. Mycroft Holmes watched it absently, hands intertwined to form a rest for his chin. It had been a very long day.

South Korean officials had busted one of the most prosperous drug rings, a small Russian riot was becoming a much larger pain in his arse, and a powerful faction in Southern Africa was attempting to rig the election that he had rightfully bought. But none of these issues – all with their own mountains of paperwork that buried his desk – had resulted in the consumption of his finest bottle of scotch.

No, _that_ was because his baby brother had gone off grid several hours previously.

The famous detective and the blogger had vanished, handcuffed to each other, after holding some twenty-three Scotland Yard officers at gunpoint. He could still see the shaky security camera footage as he had personally fielded a call from a very distressed Detective Inspector.

_"You've got to find him Mycroft, seriously. The entire force is gonna tear up the town 'til they find him and it won't be pretty for anyone."_

_"You seem very certain of your force, Inspector."_

_"You think he can hide?" A faint trace of hope._

_A hollow laugh in response. Pausing the surveillance video. "No. But I can guarantee you he will find a way out."_

Two minutes and thirty-eight seconds later, he had received a phone call from one of his people. The missing gun discarded in an alley.

Six minutes and fifty-two seconds later had produced a body – one of Baker Street's new assassins, currently still cooling on a slab.

A longer wait, then. An hour and eleven minutes later before Kitty Riley's triumphant 999 call. Mycroft had wanted to... _attend_ to her in person, but time was precious. He sent one of his best men.

And now he waited. All possibly relevant information was being sent directly to his computer, resulting in a cascading mess of notifications flashing violently. It was that – and not the scotch – that was giving him a horrible throbbing near his right temple. In his line of work, Mycroft had perfected the art of thinking clearly on a stomach full of alcohol.

He was thinking that he really ought to grab the glass – which was antique and a very generous gift from a disgraced king – when the door's locked flipped and a young man stumbled in. Mycroft's spine straightened instinctively, his hands drifting to fold themselves on the desk.

Mycroft Holmes had delivered a hundred death sentences in his years working for the government, and rarely for the Crown. But he was nothing if not honest, and he had visited each of the family's personally to inform them of the situation that had transpired. How many times had he prepared himself before the mirror, trying to hold a calm demeanor...

It was the same forced calm and underlying panic that he saw reflected back at him now.

"We've found him, sir. He slipped past the hospital security." Mycroft doubted that. More likely, a consultant criminal had taken out security as a move in his chess match. The young man swallowed and took a deep breath, forcing his eyes to meet those that rested on him now. "Sir... he's on the roof."

"Moriarty?" asked Mycroft seriously, almost detached.

"With him, but dead." The man seemed slightly relieved to have at least one piece of good news.

"My brother didn't...?"

"No, sir. From the video angle we have, he appears to have shot himself." Mycroft nodded. No, of course not. That was not how his brother worked. Sherlock was a wager of mental warfare. He always made sure the person pulled the trigger themselves.

"Send a detail to collect him, then."

"That's the tricky bit, sir. There's... an assassin on site."

A chill swept over the room. "Moran?"

The man shook his head. "Unknown, sir."

"Targeting?" asked Mycroft impatiently.

"We're not sure of that either, sir."

"Can we safely eliminate him?" Mycroft asked urgently, mind working overtime factoring in possible variables.

"Unlikely, sir. With Moriarty, we can almost certainly assume there will be a back-up. Possibly a dead man's switch."

"If you are asking me if I am willing to risk a city block for my brother's safety, you should reconsider." Mycroft's smile was terrifying. "I can guarantee you will not like my answer."

The trilling of the phone broke the icy silence, just as the young man's pager buzzed. The phones were set for only emergency ultra-level calls. Mycroft seized the phone and did not speak.

"Update, Mr. Holmes," recited a tense female voice on the other end. "Dr. Watson has appeared on site. The assassin's locked onto him, sir."

The phone was slammed back onto its cradle as Mycroft closed him eyes. Of course. Aim for the weakest spot. The landlady and Detective Inspector would be targets as well, but no, John was the real concern. What had they always said about taking a shot? Ah, yes. Aim for the heart.

"Sir, your brother's phone is making a call."

He couldn't even open his eyes. "Patch it in and leave."

The door shut softly and the speakers around his room began to buzz with static. Suddenly –

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"_

Crying. The heartless brother of the Ice Man was crying. Mycroft lowered his head into his hands.

_"Do what?" _

_"This phone call – it's... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?"_

Damn. Why had he drunk the entire decanter? His stomach lurched in protest.

_"Leave a note when?"_

_God, John. No. _

_"Goodbye, John."_

_I am sorry, brother._

_"No. Don't."_

The call ended abruptly. The glass slid the last centimeter and slipped off the desk, shattering into a crystal mess on the wooden floor. Mycroft paid it no notice as he reached heavily towards the phone. "Sir?" asked a voice when he put the receiver to his ear. "Mr. Holmes?"

He stared at his disfigured reflection in the crystal shards. "Send a team to collect John Watson. Be delicate."


End file.
